CHAPTER 2
Killing is a Simple Matter - The Isolde Cordelia Story Part 1
The Pig Must Die
It would be an easy thing.
He'd be alone in his pod, oblivious to the outside world.
She would slip into his office, press the blade through his neck, and out again. No issues.
But there were issues.
'What if he wasn't alone?' she thought.
'What if he roused?'
'What if he were alone and stayed immersed? Will I really be able to do this either way?'
'What would it truly accomplish? Another rich, fat, greedy, murderous bastard will be here tomorrow, if not sooner.'
'Wouldn't they want to punish the guilty? Or the innocent? Or all of us?!?'
Superintendent Isaac Whitmar was indeed a rich, fat, greedy, murderous bastard. Rich enough to drink 20 times his substantial weight in water every day though oddly enough, he rarely bathed.
Even with an artificial star supplementing the heat from Sol, Mars was still cooler than Earth and the regulated environments of the colonies. You couldn't tell from Whitmar, however. He never stopped sweating ̶ profusely. Standing, sitting, walking, or eating (his second favorite pastime), he was always drenched in his own foul sweat.
His shirts were painted with concentric amorphous wet spots, stained red from the Martian dust. Tainted salt water dripped from his nose and gathered into mud clots in his scraggly mustache and goatee. Trails of the most recent drops traced down from his cheeks, disrupting the lines of mahogany mud that constantly collected in the fat folds of his neck. It matted his dirty blond hair to his head, making it look like a slimy red octopus was trying to suck out his brain, though a brain-sucking octopus would surely starve in such a venture.
Whitmar ran the LifeWorks, Inc. Plantation. At just over 200 million acres, Lifeworks was smaller than most Martian plantations, but it was his to control. The board of directors was millions of miles away, and he was isolated from them by the Martian EM shield.
The EM shield kept the chattel from accessing the Q, limiting their ability to communicate with each other and the rest of the system. The only nodes on the planet were the hard-wired gelpods owned by the managers of the 100 or so Martian farms and ranches.
This was the dream job for Whitmar. On Mars, he was a king. Free to do as he pleased and take what he wanted. There was literally, he thought, no one to stop him. He dined on the finest food in the solar system: Fresh fruits and vegetables of all types, and real beef, pork, chicken, and lamb when the vast majority of the 8 hundred trillion humans in the system had never even tasted meat. Whitmar had not only more than he could ever wish for but a kitchen full of chattel, skilled and continually practiced in the culinary arts.
Kitchen chattels were instructed to always have a variety of prepared foods available to satisfy the superintendent's every delight. They were quite eager to comply, given the beating Whitmar administered to the kitchen overseer two seasons prior. He nearly whipped the man to death for serving too many of the wrong kinds of snacks.
You could learn just about anything about a person from their plaque—anything they didn't mind sharing, that is. Whether you wished to make your curiosity evident by staring at the display floating in front of their chest (keeping in mind that they don't see their own plaque) or be more discreet by simply pulling up your own copy that no one else could see, it was a great way to gather information.
Anticipating a person's cravings anywhere else in the system would be relatively easy. Without the EM shield, the chattel would simply monitor Whitmar's nutritional needs from his plaque and predict the moment's particular culinary itch. Chefs on the Rings routinely monitored the plaques of corporate elites this way to better plan successful dining experiences.
On Mars, however, this otherwise simple task was left to wild guesswork that produced an abundance of extra food. Despite Whitmar's gluttonous manner, the kitchen's fear-driven overproduction left lots of extra. Some would be devoured by Whitmar's personal guard, but there was always more than enough for the recycler and the Kitchen help. It was a minor benefit to living their lives in fear.
Isolde went to climb the back servant's stairs leading to Whitmar's personal suite. The narrow spiral staircase was vacant this time of night, as was most of the manor house.
It was 1-day and should've been about the time for his weekly meeting with Lifework's Production Division Management. The meeting was set for the same systime each week, but being on an independently rotating planet meant figuring out when the meeting would start in local time. After doing the math 6 times, she was sure (or almost sure) she got it right. If not, her errand would meet with an abrupt and most likely painful end.
She paused at the foot of the wrought iron stairs and shuddered at the thought of what Whitmar would do if she were unsuccessful.
'None of this!' she thought, admonishing herself. 'You Will Succeed! You WILL end Whitmar for what he did to your brother and countless others!'
Before moving on to the first stair, she took the briefest moment to think of her brother's smile, how he'd always been there for her, and how he'd lovingly teased her for her awkward ways and snorting when she laughed. He was her fierce protector and would have never been on this red dust-ball if he hadn't cared for her the way he did.
She admonished herself again, 'Focus, Isolde! Thoughts like this are a luxury you cannot allow.'
She put her weight on the first cold iron stair, and the column shifted in its braces. A loud clanging clamor resonated through the entire staircase! It rang through the air like off-key church bells as the steps rattled back and forth! She winced and stopped dead in her tracks, nearly deafened by a high-pitched ringing in her ears that didn't stop when the stair noise stopped. The ringing was not from the stairs; it was terror!
She stood motionless like an animal in a spotlight, heart threatening to pound out of her chest!
'How loud was that?'
'Was it loud enough to carry out to the guards at their posts?'
'Should I run?'
Isolde waited perfectly still, stretching out with her ears for any faint sound or sign of being discovered.
She pondered whether they would come for her through one of the kitchen's three exits or from the top of the stairs. She'd quickly planned which route to run based on their approach, though it didn't matter. Even if she managed to reach the open air, the drones would be on her too fast to escape.
They may not even descend but instead, track her back to her dorm and wait until she was asleep. Then, the guards would come in the night and take her away along with anyone near her or anyone who saw them. Those who remained would wake up in the morning to nothing but rumors.
She waited for the longest two minutes of her life, and though there was still an aching empty feeling in the pit of her belly and the ringing in her ears hadn't entirely subsided, she pressed on.
Isolde moved in slow motion, doing all she could to distribute her weight evenly and slowly. She made her steps light by pressing down with her hands on the banisters and gently placing each heel on the next step, then rolling forward, slowly shifting her weight to her toes. Each step seemed to take a lifetime, and the stairwell still managed to creak and shake, though far more quietly than before.
Accidental Independence
Isolde rarely heard the official name of the place she was born. It was a 166-mile wide, nearly spherical asteroid that most referred to as "Home," "here," "this place," or "the colony." It had a name given to it long before the Fall, but that name was only used by dock workers and tankers who rarely strayed from the relative safety of the STAB-controlled "Open End," Home's commercial hub.
Whatever it was called, she called it Home for the first 62 sysears of her life. She and 26 billion other Earth refugees and their descendants.
Home had been prosperous in the beginning. An efficient generator of hydrogen fuel, Home had been a pit stop for tankers and cargo ships hauling ice and ore from the asteroid belt and outer planets. Home was not just a place for these ships to top off their tanks; their crews would take shore leave, spending their ample credit in Home's casinos, sex shops, drug dens, matte clubs, and hotels. However, Home, like many early colonies, had been disenfranchised by her parent corporation long before Isolde took her first breath.
Colonial separation was not uncommon. Advances in remote mining and harvesting required fewer and smaller ships, engines became more efficient, requiring less fuel and different fuel types, and more competing colonies popped up year after year. Thus, income-generating traffic to the early colonies like Home dwindled to a trickle.
As the population and needs of these colonies grew and their profitability diminished from outside economic pressures, they became less desirable to their parent corporation.
Like so many, as the profits and usefulness to its parent corporation dwindled, Home was eventually listed in its liability column and summarily disowned. Corporate disenfranchisement made Home a free state. Well, almost a free state. Unfortunately, its now-estranged parent corporation still owned the star that gave power, light, and warmth to everything in Home.
The small fusion reactor was suspended in the center of Home's hollow central core. It bathed the 800 layers of Home's agricultural cylinder and the 800 industrial, commercial, and residential levels surrounding the AgCyl in life-giving fiber-optic "sunshine." The star warmed the air, creating the AgCyl's plant-loving misty "weather." It powered millions of ventilators, delivering air to and from all the layers and levels of Home's onion-like cylindrical core. Water from the misty air condensed as it blew across trillions of steelcrete fins in the circulation system, providing a constant flow of water for drinking, cleaning, and sewage movement to treatment facilities. The treatment facilities, powered by electricity generated by the star, produced fertilizer and propane, as well as the now-clean water that flowed back into the AgCyl to be "rained" on the crops. The star, once again, evaporated the water to create the AgCyl's gloriously misty weather, and the great circle of Home's life continued.
Removing Home's star would kill the colony itself, causing the direct demise of its 26 billion inhabitants. This could create legal issues that the corporation would prefer to avoid and sour its reputation score with trillions of prospects and customers. So, instead of reallocating the reactor to another holding, the board of directors leased it back to the people of Home.
Thus, with one flick of the stylus, they managed to turn a drain on corporate resources into a small but steady income flow, albeit off the backs of the poor.
Growing up in Home was not easy. Isolde was made to labor at an early age. First, helping with laundry, cooking, and cleaning, and later laboring in the fields and textile mills, making cloth from plant fiber that her family would sell to clothing manufacturers or offer as Star Payment.
Like so many others, Isolde would labor during the "day" and escape to other worlds at night. Worlds where she could be and do anything she wanted for a few short hours, complements of the Q. Most of Home's general population did the same. The Q was the Soma of the masses.
Home, however, was a relatively lawless and violent place. Over the centuries, the people of Home made several attempts to establish a government, but the only issues that seemed important enough for all to agree upon were who gets to eat and generating enough income to pay for the star.
The Hands of Justice
Outside of gangs, watches, and criminal syndicates that ruled each neighborhood and territory with their own codes and hierarchical structure, the closest thing to law and order in Home were the corrupt "Hands of Justice."
Soon after Home's disenfranchisement, the people, understanding they could never lose their star, formed the "Star Trust Administrative Board" or STAB*. STAB was granted the authority to ensure the continued possession and safety of Home's star above all else.
The system for this was as straightforward as possible. Every man, woman, and child, regardless of ability, owed the same amount each cycle. They or someone claiming responsibility for them paid with money, labor, or goods. If you didn't pay, you went away. It was that simple.
Over the centuries, millions of people, in fact, "went away." Many begged or stole their way onto visiting ships, and some were simply thrown into space, but they were most often sold into slavery to pay their dues and line the pockets of STAB leadership.
Thus the left hand of Home's corrupt oligarchy was born.
An Agricultural Cooperative was also founded to govern the cultivation and distribution of crops and other agricultural resources. To keep things "fair," every neighborhood in Home was represented in the Ag Co-Op. However, all major decisions were made by the Co-Op's "Steering Committee" members. These fifty people wrote and administered Home's Food Law. This set of strict guidelines was created to govern the number of workers required from each neighborhood to work in the AgCyl, and the distribution of resources produced from each harvest, i.e., who gets to eat.
Justice was immediate and severe for any caught violating Food Law.
Over the centuries, millions of people, in fact, met with "immediate and severe justice" in much the same way as Star payment welchers, they went away. Some by ship or involuntary spacewalk, but most were sold into slavery to line the pockets of Steering Committee members.
Thus the right hand of Home's corrupt oligarchy made its way into the Verse.
Layer 97
It was a typical day like any other. Isolde got up earlier than the rest of her family. She pushed her flowing umber curls back into a tight pony tail, dressed in grubby clothes to work the AgCyl, and started her morning chores.
She first drained the last few drops of water from the family drum into a container, cleaned the inside with a dry towel, wrestled it back onto its pedestal, and filled it with the family's daily ration. She then made protein cakes and heated beans and greensheets for the family breakfast. She packed one of the cakes and a small portion of the beans into her satchel and headed for the door.
Thinking the rest of her family was still in their beds, she was utterly shocked when her older brother, Aenon, leaped from hiding at the bottom of the stairwell.
Landing between Isolde and the door in a partial crouch, Aenon made a muffled howl as he threw his arms wide like a would-be attacker. Isolde jumped and screamed, then covered her mouth, dropping her lunch to the floor.
"Good morning, irimboa!" laughed Aenon heartily as he moved in to wrap her in a brotherly bear hug.
Isolde, not at all happy with either his little surprise or his early morning cheerful demeanor (People got no right being this cheery in the morning!), slapped him several times in the chest, growling menacingly before finally giving into the hug. However, she refused to let even the slightest smile ruin her scowl.
"That's not funny, idiota!! I probably woke the G's, and my lunch is likely mush, foon! Thanks!"
She firmly pushed both palms into his broad chest to shove him away but managed to barely move his bulk while propelling herself backward into the wall. Her head hit the rock-hard monocrete with a thud, further fueling Aenon's laughter and Isolde's frustration. She rubbed her head, growled out her anger once again, and scooped up her satchel.
"You're so delicate, Dee!" he chided through his laughter, but she was out the door before the last syllable passed his lips.
At 97 sysears, Aenon was technically an adult but maintained the rebellious attitude of youth. He answered to few outside his G's and, though he loved her, his younger sister wasn't one of them. This mentality served him well in his position with the NW1168, his neighborhood's "security force," i.e., gang.
With such rivals as the Tanner Clan, who ruled the section just one level above and routinely sent its soldiers both up and down the shafts to harass and steal from their neighbors, and the Smith Syndicate just a few sections down-track on his same level, Aenon's unruly mentality drew more than just a little admiration from his crew mates. With all the threats their section faced daily, the other NWs found strength in Aenon's indomitable demeanor, and though they held no formal elections, he was, ipso facto, their leader.
It wasn't always easy to tell what Aenon loved more, his sister or teasing his sister. They'd been like this since she was a baby. Already a full-grown man from the day of her birth, Aenon loved and tormented Isolde. He was her fierce protector, relatable guide, partner in mischief, dear friend, and incessant pest. He often swore to her that this treatment would only make her tougher, but in truth, he just thought her reactions were funny. However, knowing it was never mean-spirited, this constant annoyance told Isolde that he truly loved her.
Thus Isolde's initial irritation of the fright he'd given her quickly faded. A half-smirk smile crossed her face, and her heart became as light as a feather once again as she headed to the vator at the down-track end of their section.
She turned from her doorway and down the walk to be met by the daily assault of floating ads and marketing messages that popped up promising Isolde Cordelia more water, better skin, nicer clothes, and tastier food.
She'd thought a few times over the sysears about investing in a faracap like Aenon's, but the ads were easily ignored and actually added splashes of color to Home's otherwise gray thoroughfares and corridors. She also wasn't confident with "techy stuff." She was convinced she'd mess up the cap's programming and block all the wrong signals. Besides, faracaps were for criminals and crazies who wanted to block the Q to keep from being tracked.
She unconsciously shook her head at the thought of "being tracked." Whoever would track her would probably fall asleep watching her boring little life.
As she walked, her mind turned to the chores ahead. Home was not wealthy enough to afford either robotic or slave labor, so all the crops were worked by her citizens. It was hard work, and most complained and made sarcastic jokes about themselves being the slaves. To Isolde, however, working the AgCyl, though arduous, was genuinely rewarding. At the end of a long day, she could literally see the fruits of her labor and felt she was making a real difference by playing her part in this little world she called Home.
Isolde ignored the whispers of corruption in the Steering Committee and had never actually seen anyone harassed unduly by the Food Law Enforcement Agency (FLEA) officers. More commonly known as Beetles due to their shiny, black, head-to-toe body armor, the only time she'd seen them arrest anyone, the man was actually found guilty of stealing pressed protein sheets for a smuggling ring. Having never seen the smuggler again was of no consequence to Isolde. Stealing food was wrong and hurt everyone. Whatever fate the Co-Op had deemed appropriate was his own fault.
Today, Isolde would be working in the cornfields on layer 97. It would be scorching under the sunbeds, so she'd need to petition the ag dispensary for two extra water rations to avoid heat injury. As she walked, she called up the pre-filled supply requisition form and sent it in so the additional water could be dispensed when she reached 97.
She planned to hit the rows hard today and get lost in the work of harvesting. She set a goal to fill seven full crates by day's end. This would be a personal best for her, but she was confident that if she really pushed, she could do it.
Lost in thought as she made her way down-track, she hadn't noticed that she'd been noticed ---
It was still very early, and few people were on the track. Isolde loved this time of day. She always felt a quiet sense of pride starting out while most were still sleeping. Not just because it allowed her to ensure her family was well cared for but because others out this early shared a secret connection, a sense of oneness common to the serious workers. They were the true backbone of life in Home. Soon, billions of people, less thoughtful about their place in society, would crowd the tracks, rushing around to avoid being late for their roles or assignments. However, this moment, the silent hour before the daily pandemonium, was for the dedicated.
None of these early denizens spoke of this quiet camaraderie. In fact, they rarely spoke at all. They just walked silently along like half-sleeping ghosts with their lunch bags, work cases, and water tubes, perhaps thinking, like she was, of the day ahead.
Nearing the vator that would take her on the long ride up to the AgCyl, Isolde's thoughts were interrupted as she became suddenly aware of someone following uncomfortably close behind her, and matching her steps.
Isolde cracked a knowing smile, then stopped abruptly in her tracks. Her shadow nearly ran her over but managed to jump to the side, almost losing his balance.
Chuckling with delight, the smiling face of Juan Mitchel, called "Jimbo" for some unknown reason by his NW crew mates, greeted her with a mock bow of reverence and a warm though quite silly, "'Morrow M' Dam!"
"Good morrow, kind sir," she replied in the same mock reverent tone, broken at the end with a delightful giggle.
Isolde's genuine, sweet smile made Jimbo's heart leap. She never really thought of herself as beautiful, but to Jimbo, she was an olive-skinned angel. When she smiled her emerald eyes would sparkle and everything else would disappear, no asteroids, stars, AgCyls, gangs, or neighborhoods existed. There was only a longing to make that smile last forever and bring joy to the person wearing it.
Jimbo was 212 sysears old, and Isolde 62. Though a human could theoretically live for thousands of sysears, and most wouldn't bat an eye at a 150-year gap, to Jimbo, this was too much. He felt it would never work. He was not perfect and knew his faults. The gap in their lives' experiences would give him unfair sway on her that he would consistently though unintentionally take advantage of. He would always be the dominant, overshadowing personality in the union, making it impossible for her to be as happy as she deserved. Her light would dim, and he would live a life of guilt, knowing he had caused it. In Jimbo's mind, relationships with age gaps this large could only end sadly, or at least this was the excuse his inner coward chose to believe.
There was also the matter of Isolde's family, however. Jimbo knew her G's would never consent to her being joined with a nobody like him. He was a hustler without a proper role. He had not owned or operated any businesses or even led teams. He ran side gigs and did odd jobs to survive, and he barely managed to feed himself and make his Star payments. He wasn't even good enough to rise through the ranks of the NW. He'd been in the watch for nearly 80 sysears and was still an ordinary track guard. In Jimbo's mind, most thought he only joined the NW to get out of Ag duty. To everyone else, if you listened to Jimbo's thoughts, he was nothing.
For all these "reasons," Jimbo decided decades ago that he would be the wrong man for Isolde. His heart ached for her every day, but he was determined that if he was going to do one thing right in his miserable life, it would be to not ruin hers. Instead, Jimbo did his best to watch the tracks in their neighborhood at night, escort Isolde to the vator in the mornings, and do whatever it took to make that smile happen as often as possible.
As it turns out, however, making Isolde smile was exceptionally easy for Jimbo. She adored him. Like most in the Neigh, she could see his caring, warm heart and staunch loyalty to friends, family, and crew. He was funny, clever, a fierce warrior when need be, and the kind of person who would do anything to improve others' lives, and --- he was pretty good-looking! Isolde was determined to one day find a good companion for her dear friend.
"Headed to toil in the fields again, Dee?" he asked to spark the small talk.
"I sure am. I've got Ag duty on 97 for the next 12 cycles.” she said. Then casting a sideways smile added, "I think they like me."
"Meu Deus! I think AgCo takes advantage of your devotion. Personally, I don't know how you can stand it. It's broiling hot and muggy in the AgCyl, and you come home covered in dirt that no sonics could possibly clean without piercing your eardrums.” he argued.
She stopped once again and looked him side-long in the face. Feigning bruised feelings, she asked, "Are you calling me unclean, Jimmy?"
"No.” he proclaimed as they resumed their walk. "I'm just saying you're feichang smart, Dee! Super smart and dedicated, and from a respected family! You deserve more than just digging around in the dirt, pulling up turnips all day. You could be a doctor, a Steering Rep, or Food Administrator. You could join the EuphCon and help bring the neighborhoods together."
Realizing his words sounded more like a lecture, Jimbo looked at the ground, shaking his head, and in a less animated voice, managed, "They're just taking advantage, is all."
Isolde's brow furled. "I'm not smart enough to be a leader, and we've been trying to bring the neighborhoods together for a century. EuphCon won't change anything." The words tasted bitter as they left her lips, but too many times, individuals and groups had tried to unite the people and failed. She would not have her hopes dashed again. "You are SO sweet, Jimmy, but I really do like working Ag." She said in assurance. "It makes me happy."
"Okay, okay.” relented Jimbo, holding up his hands in defeat. "If it's what you really like, I guess I won't have to hurt anyone."
"Oh please, mighty warrior, PLEASE don't hurt anyone!" she teased. And there was that smile again ---
"Yeah, yeah, young one. Go have fun playing in your dirt. But try not to bring so much of it home with you, okay?"
She stomped her foot and stared at him, eyes and mouth wide in play shock. Then reached over, pulled his head close, and kissed him on the cheek.
Jimbo stood there stunned as Isolde turned and walked through the open door of the waiting vator and disappeared into the car. Thrilled by Isolde's show of affection, he watched as the doors closed and the vator whizzed its way up the shaft, knowing he'd think of little else that day.
The uncrowded pie-wedge-shaped vator car flew upward through the shaft toward Home's center, hurdling past levels so quickly that each seemed like the single blink of a Q-Club strobe. To make way for other pieces of the pie to zoom past in the opposite direction, the car worked its way around the circular shaft as it sped along, but it rarely stopped. It knew which levels needed it most and only stopped at a few to pick up a handful of the dedicated and whisked its way past the rest.
The vator climbed over 30 miles up the shaft before gliding to a halt at AgCyl 100, where all but a few passengers disembarked. Layer 100 of the Agricultural Cylinder was a pole bean layer with millions of vine-covered arches lined in rows, effectively creating long tunnels of lush green vegetation.
Though the tunnels offered welcome shade from the sunbuds that dotted the ceiling, stepping from the comfort of the air-conditioned vator into the 90-degree sauna of the AgCyl was nonetheless a hot wet punch in the face. Most of the dedicated were dripping with sweat before they'd made it 30 feet to the waiting open-air tram that would take them on the next leg of their morning commutes.
The tram sped through one of the tunnels down-track toward the AgCyl's management ring. Home to the AgCyl's administrative offices, equipment warehouses, maintenance bays, machine shops, medical offices, and labor facilities, the management ring circled the middle of layer 100 like a belt around a jungle.
At the ring, Isolde grabbed her two extra water rations and took another, smaller vator up to AgCyl 97. Like AgCyl 100, the monocrete-sealed stone ceiling here was about 90 feet above her head and dotted with half-domed-shaped sunbuds. Sunbuds were everywhere in Home. They distributed heat and light directly from Home's star to all 1600 layers and levels. Without the shade of the pole bean tunnels, however, the heat from the buds made it seem much hotter on 97 than Layer 100.
Besides the vator columns and an oversized garage, Isolde could see nothing but corn here. The stalks stretched as far as the eye could see through the mist, both up-track and down-track, and disappeared under the curvature of the ceiling only a mile or so in both Home's prograde and retrograde directions.
Isolde stopped for a moment to stare as far up-track as she could. You couldn't feel Home's spin in the neighborhoods, but here, less than 5 miles from the star, she could sense it. If she stared directly down the cylinder, everything would seem normal for a moment, but then she could feel it and almost see it! Home was moving under her feet! Isolde knew if she stared too long, she'd get dizzy but was fascinated by the idea that all this, everything she'd ever known, was inside a massive ball of rock and monocrete, spinning its way through space!
Before she fell from vertigo, she giggled and looked away, smiling. Home was a fascinating place.
Getting back to work, Isolde grabbed her additional water tubes, loaded eight folded crates onto a truck, and climbed on with a dozen other workers. The truck took off into the air and whizzed along the corn tips, landing at various unharvested sites just long enough to drop a pair of workers at each.
Her work partner today was an ancient named Tellah**. Like most ancients, Tellah was very quiet. After 400 or 500 sysears, most people simply ran out of things to say. Having "seen it all" in the repeating patterns of life and lacking a younger person's need to impress anyone, idle conversation had simply become a waste of time. There was very little "new" information to an ancient, and less need ever be passed along.
Isolde, however, considered this a challenge. She asked Tellah about Home's past and the Fall, the Great Migration when the refugees from Earth pressed into the colonies, the ships, miners, and pilots that used to come and go daily, and if Tellah could remember the time before the AI Rebellion. She prodded the poor soul with all manner of questions about how good things must have been back then and so on.
For her part, Tellah rarely put more than a two-word answer together, and she'd often smiled knowingly as if she understood Isolde's intentions better than Isolde knew them herself.
After a while, when she could think of no more questions, Isolde grew tired of the game. From that point forward, the two worked in silence, inspecting each stalk for ears of corn whose silk tassels had turned brown and tossing them into crates.
Though Tellah didn't care about the actual number, Isolde kept an AR counter that advanced with each ear she tossed in. She kept the card pulled up in front of her as she worked to stay constantly aware of her progress toward her 7-crate goal. She was kind of an agro-geek that way.
A few hours into the morning, Tellah nudged Isolde and pointed to something in the air close by. Isolde had been working at such a feverish pace she'd completely missed the sound of the truck landing not too far away. This was strange as the truck shouldn't be back to pick them up for several more hours, and no one had contacted them about a schedule change. It was also weird that the truck landed many rows away instead of where the crates were being filled.
Isolde pulled up her truck's schedule, but, as she'd thought, it wasn't due yet. She looked to Tellah for possible guidance but was met with shrugging shoulders as the older woman, apparently no longer interested in the event, resumed harvesting corn.
"Well, I'm curious," Isolde huffed with no attempt to hide her frustration at the older woman's indifference.
Tellah's shoulders dropped in submission. She rolled her eyes and begrudgingly motioned for Isolde to lead the way.
After several minutes of walking, they could hear arguing voices. Though they could not make out the words, at least one of the voices had the distinctly amplified tone of a man speaking through a Beetle's face mask!
Conditioned by sysears of hearing that booming voice of authority, both of the workers were momentarily stunned by the development. This was clearly not their truck and it was not here to pick up workers. A Food Officer was here, in the middle of nowhere, arguing with someone.
Tellah immediately motioned for the two to retreat, but Isolde, now dying of curiosity and utterly confident in her own innocence, ignored Tellah and advanced toward the voices unafraid.
Tellah grabbed Isolde by the arm and shook her finger. The look of urgency on Tellah's face was disturbing, but Isolde shook it off. Tellah was obviously one of those who bought into conspiracy theories about corruption in the Co-Op. This was absurd to Isolde. STAB and the Co-Op were the only things outside the neighborhood watches that kept anyone safe in the colony. They were the good guys! "Aren't you curious about what they're doing out here? Maybe they caught a smuggler", she whispered.
Tellah shook her head furiously and tried to pull Isolde away, but Isolde broke her grip and, marching defiantly toward the voices, declared, "I'm going to find out!"
Against her better judgment, Tellah followed, if for no other reason than to pull Isolde out of harm's way if needed.
Just a few rows away from the landing site, Isolde paused. They could just make out the shape of the truck and another smaller vehicle. There were two people between the vehicles, the Beetle and another man, the second on his knees. The amplified voice of the Food Officer was a little clearer, " --- The Director --- payment --- consequences ---"
Then a shot rang out, and the kneeling man fell over.
Shocked by both the sound and what she thought she was seeing, Isolde couldn't help but scream. Though it was short and muffled by both her hands and Tellah's desperately clasping themselves over her mouth, it did not go unheard.
"Who's there?" the Beetle's deep, rough voice immediately demanded, "Come out now with your hands in the air!"
Terrified, Isolde's body tried to freeze but was pulled stumbling away by Tellah just as three loud 'cracks' split the air!
The bullets' guidance systems, confused by the corn stalks, whizzed by the two women's heads, exploding ears and snapping stalks as they flew. Bits and pieces of plant fiber and corn mist clouded the air, adding to the chaos that had shattered Isolde's reality in only a few short seconds.
Both workers sprinted as fast as they could, blindly bursting through row after row, ignoring cuts from rough leaf edges scratching across their arms and faces.
Isolde stumbled forward as the sound of three more loud shots rang out. She barely managed to stay on her feet as the bullets hissed over her head, one so close it blew her hair forward. She looked up from her stumble, and time slowed to a crawl as the bullet's explosive tip caused Tellah's head to erupt in a shower of bloody pieces just a few strides in front of her.
Isolde, now blind with panic, turned and stumbled in another direction, bursting again across row after row with no clear path or destination. She just needed to get away!
She ran on for several minutes but heard no more shots. She was confused, terrified, and nearly exhausted but could not stop. Lungs burning and legs threatening to give out, she pressed on, blind with sweat, blood, corn juice, plant bits, and terror. She was no longer running but falling forward through the rows. Finally, as she stumbled between a pair of stalks, almost wholly spent from her flight, she slammed hard into something solid. It knocked what was left of the wind out of her, and she collapsed toward the ground, unconscious before she found it.
AUTHOR'S FOOTNOTE:
*As campy or contrived as it may seem, the acronym "STAB" was a happy coincidence. I chose not to change it because it made my dark little heart giggle. :P
**We didn't have the budget to pay Tellah for a speaking role, but we thank her for her outstanding, though silent performance.